23 Essential Quotes from Ernest Hemingway About Writing

Ernest Hemingway was one of the most influential writers of the 20th century. Writers such as J.D. Salinger and Ray Bradbury have claimed Hemingway as an influence. Most writers seem either love him—and are influenced by his clear, direct prose—or hate him. John Irving said he objected to the “offensive tough-guy posturing—all those stiff-upper-lip, don’t-say-much men.”

Regardless of your personal feelings, Hemingway’s insight into the craft of writing is unparalleled, as you’ll see.

23 Ernest Hemingway Quotes for Writers

All of Ernest Hemingway’s quotes in this article are from A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway‘s memoir about his life as a writer in Paris:

1. “Do not worry. You have always written before…”

I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now.”

2. All You Need to Write Is…

The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener (a pocket knife was too wasteful), the marble topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed. For luck, you carried a horse chestnut and a rabbit’s foot in your right pocket.

3. Write One True Sentence

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say.

4. Cut Out the Ornamentation

If I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written.

5. Don’t Think About Your Writing When you’re Not Writing

It was in that room too that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the time I stopped writing until I started again the next day. That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would be listening to other people and noticing everything.

6. Write as Straight as You Can

“Write the best story that you can and write it as straight as you can.”

7. Write What You Know

Up in that room I decided that I would write one story about each thing that I knew about. I was trying to do this all the time I was writing, and it was good and severe discipline.

8. Allow Painters to Influence You

I was learning something from the painting of Cézanne that made writing simple true sentences far from enough to make the stories have the dimensions that I was trying to put in them. I was learning very much from him but I was not articulate enough to explain it to anyone. Besides it was a secret.

9. Don’t Repeat Yourself

This book began magnificently, went on very well for a long way with great stretches of great brilliance and then went on endlessly in repetitions that a more conscientious and less lazy writer would have put in the waste basket.

10. Exercise

It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read in order not to think or worry about your work until you could do it again.

11. Never Empty the Well of Your Writing

I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.

12. After You Write, Read

When I was writing, it was necessary for me to read after I had written. If you kept thinking about it, you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next day.

13. Let the Pressure Build

When I had to write it, then it would be the only thing to do and there would be no choice. Let the pressure build. In the meantime I would write a long story about whatever I knew best.

14. What Do You know Best?

What did I know best that I had not written about and lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most? There was no choice at all.

15. Omit Anything You Want (As Long As You Know You’re Doing It)

It was a very simple story called “Out of Season” and I had omitted the real end of it which was that the old man hanged himself. This was omitted on my new theory that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood.

16. Stay Sound in Your Head

All I must do now was stay sound and good in my head until morning when I would start to work again.

17. If You Can’t Write, Don’t Write

To an aspiring writer: “You shouldn’t write if you can’t write.”

18. It’s Okay to Be Shy

… [F. Scott Fitzgerald] had the shyness about it that all non-conceited writers have when they have done something very fine.

19. But Don’t Pimp Your Writing

[F. Scott Fitzgerald] had told me at the Closerie des Lilas how he wrote what he thought were good stories, and which really were good stories for the Post, and then changed them for submission, knowing exactly how he must make the twists that made them into salable magazine stories. I had been shocked at this and I said I thought it was whoring…. I said that I did not believe anyone could write any way except the very best he could write without destroying his talent.

20. Break Down Your Writing

Since I had started to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe, writing had been wonderful to do. But it was very difficult, and I did not know how I would ever write anything as long as a novel. It often took me a full morning of work to write a paragraph.

21. Forget Living the “Literary Life”

I was getting tired of the literary life, if this was the literary life that I was leading, and already I missed not working and I felt the death loneliness that comes at the end of every day that is wasted in your life.

22. Don’t Drink While You Write

My training was never to drink after dinner nor before I wrote nor while I was writing.

23. Don’t Judge Your Writing Until the Next Day

After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.

Bonus Quotes from Hemingway’s Mentors

The following are not Ernest Hemingway’s quotes. Instead, they are tips to Ernest Hemingway from his friends and mentors which he captured in A Moveable Feast:

24. Be Careful About Writing About Sex

“It’s good,” [Gertrude Stein] said. “That’s not the question at all. But it is inaccrochable. that means it is like a picture that a painter paints and then he cannot hang it when he has a show and nobody will buy it because they cannot hang it either.”

25. What We Lack Most

“We need more true mystery in our lives, Hem,” [Evan Shipman] once said to me. “The completely unambitious writer and the really good unpublished poem are the things we lack most at this time. There is, of course, the problem of sustenance.”

26. Only Read What Is Good

Gertrude Stein told Ernest Hemingway:

You should only read what is truly good or what is frankly bad.

Which of these Ernest Hemingway quotes is your favorite?

PRACTICE

I love Hemingway’s questions for himself, “What did I know best that I had not written about and lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?”

Ask those questions of yourself, then write whatever story comes to mind.

For this practice, write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, you can post your practice in the comments section below to get feedback. Afterward, feel free to continue working on your story. And if you post, please make sure to give feedback to other writers.

Joe, Please fix the third sentence in your opening paragraph from “hate they him” to “they hate him”.

Chloee

What did I know about truly and care for the most?” Family and friends.

I walked down the weed riddled sidewalk to the old country store down the block in my old little town the hot sun beatin down on my freckled face. My red pig tails bouncing up and down as I skipped mama and pop said I could have some penny candy. My older brother Tom and Will were over at the creek going fishin I wanted to go but momma said it wasn’t ladylike to fish. I love fishin though and Tom and will would try to take me as long as momma never found out. Well Momma found out the last time I went fishin and was competly horrified.

I opened the door and the little twinkling sound of the bell rang alerting Mr. Olly’s old beagle Trigger that there was a coustmer. Settle down trigger! Mr. Olly said. Trigger gave one more throaty bark then layed down to fall asleep snugglin into his once brown fur now grey with age. He smiled down at me. What can I do for you little Roxanne. Mr. Olly my name’s rocky you know how I hate Roxanne that’s a girly name! I said grinning. Okay then Rocky. I thought you would be fishin with Tom and Will down at the creek? I tried but momma found out and now I’m banned. I cross my arms as I spin on the little stool at the counter.

Mr. Olly rubbed his head full of grey hair with his old wrinkled hand. I see your Momma said you couldn’t go? I nodded grumpily. How about I tell her you went to go play with the Jones girls down the road and you can go sneak down to the creek? Mr. Olly said. I clapped my hands in glee. Thank you sir! Now if only I could talk momma into lettin me wear jeans instead of dresses. Me. Olly chuckled. One thing at a time Rocky. His blue eyes twinkled as i raced out the door to the creek.

I think it’s a really good story and I think quote marks can be optional as a matter of style. Faulkner and Joyce didn’t always use ’em! Gives me a real summery feeling and brings up fond memories of the little town close to a river where my uncle lived a long time ago. The little girl’s frustration with the mother’s expectations of “femininity” are classic, but truly told here.

Such great quotes from a truly unforgettable man. Thank you for posting

Luther

I expected- no let me say that I didn’t know what to expect from the 10 AM appointment at the home of my 14 year old probationer, who had been suspended from school the day before and was in violation of the courts rules. The offense that got him the probation sentence was minor, although 40 years have passed and my memory of that offense has faded. I parked on the tree lined street in front of the home with a beautifully manicured lawn and walked the sidewalk to the front door. About half way up the sidewalk, I became suspicious that this would not be an ordinary home visit as I could hear very loud rock and roll music coming from inside. I had to ring the door bell several times, but my probationer finally answered with a wide grin on his face. Suddenly, windows on the sides of the home opened and people could be heard scrambling outside into the shrubbery. As John stood there, holding a clear glass with a purple liquid inside and obvious from the smell, marijuana smoke wafted around him, out the door and to my nose. John said, “I forgot you were coming!” Meanwhile, I could see and hear other teenagers continuing to escape the home and what they thought would be some type of consequences. I said to John, ” Is it OK if I come in?” He just continued grinning and said,”Sure!” I stepped into the foyer and rounded the corner to the living room, still seeing bodies flying out the windows and more to my surprise there was another probationer, Greg, who quickly and discreetly dropped a marijuana roach behind a piece of furniture. What a bunch of clowns, I thought to myself. I looked back at John and then at Greg and said with some pity,” You guys knew I was coming. Are you both idiots?” They of course had no answer and both shrugged their shoulders. I advised them that they both were under arrest for probation violation and should get their personal items and lock up the home. We were headed to the courthouse! I really cared for these kids and the others that I had on probation over the 10 years of my career in that field. I often wish that I had paid more attention and recorded some of the details of my many incidents and people that I encountered. A lot has been lost!

I find that memory is an amazing thing, that memories I’d thought were lost come back with some time and reflection. I think Hemingway was right when he said, “What is it that I have not written about and lost? What was it I knew about truly and cared about the most?” That can be a great motivator. I believe you when you say you really cared about these kids. Their stories could add to the dialog about young people who get in trouble in a positive way.

This is my first time taking part. I am trying to exercise my writing muscles:

Ernest Hemmingway said “What did I know best that I had not written about and Lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?”

In my case one of those things would be my mother, and it’s a story that is tragically simple, or simply tragic, depending on which side of the coin you view it.

From my side it is tragic, and funny I guess because of the things I will do to not talk, or indeed, write about my feelings, and I admit it, some of the things I have done.

For instance, I would rather wash up a whole load of dirty dishes; mop the floor; clean a bathroom after a slobbering 20 year old male – who, by the way has the worst aim in the history of man. I could walk the dog, clean up dog poop in the garden, rod the bloody drains … anything, but have to talk about her.

Explain just why I feel so angry, disappointed, furious, and {taking a deep breath and heaving a big sigh} JEALOUS. There, I’ve said it; it’s out in the open for all to know now. Of course, I would never actually admit that to the old cow.

Actually, I would never admit anything to her, just because Mr Ernest Hemmingway has prompted me to write about it, and admit in some small way that word “jealous”, still doesn’t make it easy to explain to you the reason.

I suppose the time is now ripe to explain a short portion of why my mother and I don’t speak, let alone communicate. Did I mention that we live next door to one another?

Bloody hell, there are still 6 minutes remaining on this bloody timer that was set for The Write Practice. How the hell, can I prevaricate a bit more to stall explaining the whole sorry story. Especially, when I know for certain – like the kind of certainty that England is crap at football, and will never win the World Cup again certain, that it will, and does, make me look bad. Never mind that if viewed from my side, it also makes her look pretty bloody shitty too.

Can I just put it out there, in case you were wondering, I really am not a horrible person. She, my grey haired 76 year old mother, and her 60 year old creepy toy boy lover make me behave like a truly horrible, disgusting and vengeful person.

So, let me explain why our 50 year old loving (in the most part) mother/daughter relationship has gone from happy, or happy’ish, to I could kill you, and be happy to spend the next 17 years in jail celebrating the fact.

Why, oh why Mother dear, did we choose to move to this village of the damned?

On the outside it seems a perfectly normal, middle class, exceedingly polite, friendly even … in the case of my neighbour, too bloody friendly ….

It’s a start. I hope you keep trying to get it out. It could well be a story the world needs to hear, not for any lurid quality or salacious curiosity’s sake but for a lesson perhaps in why we ought to treat each other better. I identify with the reluctance to out with my own less-than-stellar behavior.

Gail Jones

John Fisher, keep trying to write a book. Your command of vocabulary sets you on a much higher level than most, and after you are dead and gone you will still be alive, and can possibly live forever, at least in part, because of the will you currently have (almost an elixir) to put a truthful something into words.

My comment? I’m up way too early in the morning not to be having something true to say…. Lets see where this goes… How do you hate somebody to their face? I hate it when Oostred shows up at my house. All of the booze that I’ve been saving for – whatever, gets gone and I’m left, somehow, with a house full of drunk, skinny, white chicks and one whiny, punk rocker talking about how his super world gets heavy every once in a while. He sits there with a bag full Grilled Sammy Taco’s (he knows I love tacos) and he tells me about his latest spill from his most recent tour. With a lit cigarette in one hand, and a Cajun-Stuffed Taco in the other (like he can’t decide which he’d rather have at that second) Oosie spills it: Jake Marzzallo is dead. “And I will not grieve for him,” he says after he takes a pull, “Ok, that sounds a little heavy, Georgie, I don’t want to say that I’m not gonna be sad now that he’s gone. I just, don’t want to be sad anymore.” I don’t catch what he says next, cause I’m kinda caught at that first little bit. Steve…shit. “You ok, Gg?” he asks me. “Naw… naw, Oosie, I’m fine. I just, nobody told me.” He puts the still lit cig on my ashtray, and leans back in my couch while unwrapping his taco, “I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspaper. You’re a newspaper guy, aren’t you?” “I’m a guy with a cellphone, Oosie. You could’ve called when you were on tour.” I’m on my feet, and I feel like I gotta start moving. I suddenly realize that I’m still wearing my tie and apron from The Greco, and I just feel- so…fucking…lame… ….

And that’s more than 15 minutes… I might keep this, even if it feels like those two might start fighting. I just hate that people like Oostred might be able to walk out of something like that without even a “sorry” or give Georgie a chance to cry it out; Gg knew Steve as much as he did, and didn’t deserve to be out of his life…even if Gg’s life may have been too boring for Oosie or Jake…

I like the danger implied by Oostred’s callousness and Gg’s rising anger in response to it. Also Gg’s feeling so lame and boring in his tie and apron. I got lost trying to identify all of the characters amid names and nicknames.

However the scene is plain enough to understand. I like phrases like “I’m a guy with a cell-phone, Oosie.” which identify the anger.

This could be a good scene imo in a larger story…….Thank you for sharing it, and I wish you luck. I read up on Steve Comte, his brother(?), and the Steve Marriott story. That’s rocknroll!

He stood at the pulpit, looking out over the familiar faces, many of which in earlier versions he remembered from earliest childhood. His parents beamed encouragement up to him, already knowing the import of what he had to say. They knew, and not only did they accept him just as he was, they supported him fully.

He would speak only true words of three or less syllables. He took a deep, deep breath and plunged in:

” I am gay. I have been gay since I can remember.”

Gasps and grumbles from the congregation. From the edge of his vision the pastor rose from his bench and quickly stepped up beside him. He realized that his time to speak was already at an end.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” said the pastor, laying a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, “you know we all love you, we have loved you all your life, but son, you are confused and you need the instruction of the Holy Spirit to correct and admonish you in the ways of the Lord, for His ways are right.” The hand on Edward’s shoulder firmed. “I’m sorry, but you simply may not stand up in this church and say such things. It just isn’t right.” The pastor’s large, intense eyes searched his. “I think it would be advisable for you to leave now.”

Walking to his car, he became aware that a group of boys from the church was following him, one of them dangling a quart beer bottle from his hand.

They used it on him in just such a way as one might imagine, all the while shouting at him with evangelistic fervor that it was the instrument of the Kingdom of God, and just how much God loved him and wanted his repentance.

Jay Warner

to me, what is more frightening is not the boys with the bottle, acculturated in a hateful viewpoint, but the pastor whose rejection of Edward is swift and final and hinges entirely on a three-letter word. Chilling, deflating, scary.

In my post, “Creator – Creatures” on WordPress, I have suggested that our creations can only be what we program them to be. Since humans are created beings, isn’t the ability to be gay something inbuilt/programmed? It is a matter of ability, I say; whether we use that ability or not is a different matter.

There were moments, in between all the… nothingness… things remembered… moments. Touching her hand, sunlight through her hair, the wind whipping at us, the sun, winter in a park, lovely day, brisk and cold…

That was a moment.

And he sat there and focused on flowers… flowers there before him. The same flowers that he looked at yesterday, but not the day before. He had looked at those flowers before he knew that much, but he also was quite aware that while the flowers, red and burnished purples, dark, full, tall in the sunlight, straining stood there before him and his eyes were very much focused on them, and he was not blind… he did not see them.

Moments.

A soft series of moments, wheelchair bound, it must be said. Sometimes he was in bed, sometimes asleep but more often not. Sometimes he just stared and sometimes he saw and sometimes he did not.

There was a shower of which he was very aware. The warm water struck his body and it was awkward bliss. That feeling, that sensation, that was perhaps joy, maybe made everything else bearable… that moment felt real, there and then, and then it was over.

Awkward. Moments.

He saw and he stared and sometimes he saw and sometimes he did not. He could not comprehend a lot of it and sometimes he asked himself.

How and why? Why do you all do what you do? What are you doing? Any of you? And they smiled and they spoke, their eyes filled with compassion and warmth, sometimes not. Sometimes they were tired or just not there. Absent. Those times, they were the best.

He could then just stare and they did whatever it was they were doing and neither of you were there.

Moments.

He was thinking about nothing. His mind worked and he thought things, he knew he did but sometimes these thoughts were very painful so he mostly thought about nothing at all. Sometimes, a lot of them time, his mind would just soar and explore, the universe it seemed. The world and life and everything. Sometimes he remembered making a quiche. Out of nowhere. So he would think of that and look into the world around him unseeing and he would not be able to remember all the ingredients so he would try to remember and suddenly wonder about carrots.

He would look at the sometimes still world (when he was being pushed it was all a movable feast for the eyes, he did not have to strain or even move, he could sit, watching) and he would think about vegetables and their strange shapes and colors and smells and he would wonder why, why they came to be how they came to be.

And he would sit and stare and sometimes drool and he would think about natural evolution and the millions of years that had passed and just like the stars that soar so too do his thoughts and people come and look at him sympathetically and sometimes reminisce in front of him, like he is not entirely present, about how he once was in the past.

But he is gone now. His mind is gone, somewhere. Somewhere he can just stare and not think about all that stuff he really doesn’t want to think about. He can watch.

“- So you wanna be a writer, eh? – What just happened? How did you…? Oh my god, did you just become alive? – Yes, you asked me and I came, now, do you want to be writer or not? – I think you’re just in my mind. My mind is making all this up. – Whatever, kid, just answer the question! – Do I want to be a writer? Um…I don’t know, maybe. – Then you don’t wanna be a writer. If you do, you’d know for sure! – That’s probably true…I’m sorry, I’m just still a bit…a bit confused. – You’ve come here to waste my time then? Is that right, son? You wanna waste my time? – No, sir, I just don’t… – You telling me I just came from the dead to be mocked, is that it? Is that what you are telling me, son? Because I’ll kick you in your crutch before going back if that’s true! – No, sir, not at all! I’m just a little bit confused, that’s all. I w-wanna write, but I’m not a writer. – Now I’m a little fucking confused. Are you trying to confuse me? – No sir, I just wanna say that- that I feel a little confused about life and how I should manage my problems and-and sometimes when I write those stuff down, I feel better. That’s why I thought I was a writer, but I’m sorry if I’m not one. – You idiot! You are a writer. – I am? -Yes! It’s in your blood. Listen, you just got to sit behind the typewriter and bleed. -Wow, that was… -Now, shut up and listen, all you got to do right now is to tell me the truest sentence you know. – What? – What do you know about truly and care the for most? – Umm, Ok, this might take a while. – Do not worry, you have written before and you will write now! Come on, son, tell me a sentence as straight as you can! – “I’m not a tree!” – Well, you shouldn’t write if you can’t write, but you’re sentence is okay, because it’s a true sentence, you’re not a tree and I’m not going to judge you, because as a writer you should judge, you should understand. In addition to that, I have always believed you shouldn’t judge your writing till the next day, so you’re going to read this again tomorrow night, alright? – Sure, sir. I will. – I have to go, son, I should go very soon or one of us will go mad! – Doesn’t matter which of us will go mad, if you go mad, I’ll go mad, ’cause you’re only in my mind. – Yeah, whatever.

And, poof, Mr. Hemingway is gone!”

Hey Joe, I love your blog! Very useful for young people like me! So that’s my short story, hope you liked it! (btw most of the things Hemingway said in my story, are his actual quotes, I’m sure you have already noticed that!) Sorry for my English, I’m not a native!

As a christian man i often asked myself ‘Why God, have you allowed such things to happen to me?’ I didn’t understand nor do i today fully grasp why i loved a woman who i could never be with. You see i tricked myself early on in the relationship. I told myself a lie and that lie never abandoned me. The lie was simple what we shared was magical, beyond discription or comprehension. What we had was spiritual and it cut me down to my core. What we had was love and I would lose the world and all it had to offer before I would lose her.

This was simply not the case. In the end I did lose her but more than that i pushed her away. I made a choice one day it was either going to be God or her. The love of my life or the creator of love and life. You see she was an athiest, and I tried so damn hard to ignore that because of my affections for her. I told all my christian friends to go to hell with all their advice only to in the end wind up listening to them. It wasnt that they convinced me rather that i started to wonder what reasons they could possibly have for saying such things.

In the end i realized I couldn’t be with her. Afterall how does one watch the woman that they love descend to hell. I did what I thought best and begged her to change. Imagine the confusion, ‘I love you so much but i just wish you could change fundamentally!’ What did I know honestly I was only a boy no more than 17. Of course she wouldn’t understand everything between us was fine and this was something she was willing to overlook. She could never see through my eyes, never realize that I knew we were going to get married, have children.

What was i supposed to do if my kids asked their mother if God existed? Did jesus really die for their sins? It may sound silly to you but how was I supposed to live with the fact that my wife could influence my children to hell? It was then that I realized it had to end, so I pushed her away. She never really left though, she’s gone that much is true she has even found herself another man, but she hasn’t left. She never will. She haunts me when I wake in the morning and keeps me from falling asleep at night. ‘Why God, have you let this happen to me?’

I wish I could write. I am writing but it’s just not very good and I’m afraid I will become so discouraged by the inferiority of it. Still, I want to keep trying. How do they do it? Those clever writers who can turn a phrase and make us see visions and dream dreams. I struggle to find delightful picture words to put down and even make myself smile. Please God help me continue to try. I need this now. My soul yearns to be expressing some things but I fear my heart won’t let me give them up. My head spins but it’s all just silly, every day stuff. I promise myself I won’t quit trying. How exciting to be able to write something that will make a reader long to be there, just to think about doing those daring things or pondering the mystery that has been put forth. I can see myself gliding along a silvery lake in the white yacht. I am reclining on the front part of it with the sun on my face and legs. I can feel the breeze as it wafts across the boat and makes my hair fall in my face. My cold drink sits next to me and I can reach out and have a sip when I am thirsty. The condensation truckles down the side of the glass and the straw in it bobbles around with the motion of our craft. I smile to myself at the pure luxuriousness of this floating paradise upon the clear blue of the shimmery lake. My eyes start to droop but I fear I will get a sunburn if I allow myself to drift off to sleep so I gather my towel and beach bag and clamber down from my glorious perch into the interior of the boat and join my friends to laugh and talk and maybe go for a swim. See, I’ve imagined myself there.

At first it was just the symptoms of heroin withdrawal: Tremors, shaking-chills, nausea, vomiting, severe abdominal cramps, and panic, all of which left Dagineau terrified that he would die a horrible death before they injected him again with the warm, brown, nauseating concoction that would bless him with what is known in the drug world as the Angel’s Kiss – once more sending him aloft on a tranquil gossamer cloud. Hardcore heroin addicts refer to this feeling as the Nod. Then the beatings began – pushing him to the limits of his endurance. Time lost all meaning as he descended into the depth of his soul. Turning inward for solace he teetered at the brink of the abyss. It seemed as though he could hear beautiful melodies: A symphony of lyre, flute, and sweet song – the Sirens of Circe’s warning, calling to him from deep within a black hole, offering a promise of mantic truths as well as the gilded – fool’s gold – false promise of survival. Surrender. Surrender. You’ll be warm and safe here – no more pain, no more worries. “Never.” he shouted, from somewhere deep within himself, clawing his way back from the precipice – surviving – buying another minute – an hour – a day. Losing part of himself – with each tick of the clock. Finally he was subjected to the infamous French telephone method of interrogation developed by the French Foreign Legion. As a soldier in the Legion’s 1st Parachute Regiment in Algeria, Dagineau had seen the technique used many times to extract information from rebel prisoners. It is an unimaginative – but brutally effective – means of obtaining information if you don’t care whether the object of the exercise lives or dies. It involves the use of a TP 3-12 field telephone with its wires attached to the prisoner’s ears, ankles, and testicles. By cranking the handle of the telephone’s dynamo, a high-voltage shock is supplied to all points of attachment. Since there is little amperage but high voltage, it was unlikely that Dagineau would die as a result. Each shock was exquisitely painful. His screams – there were many – sounding more animal than human, were ignored by his tormentors. One drawback to the technique is that the amount of voltage received cannot be controlled. If the voltage was too high, Dagineau would, more often than not, become unconscious – frustrating his inquisitors, forcing them to interrupt the “interrogation” until he could be revived and the torture could be continued, until blessed unconsciousness claimed him again. The pain and the relief from pain became blurred – his brain could no longer differentiate one from the other. In establishing the scientific basis for brainwashing, Pavlov coined the term Trans-marginal Inhibition. This is the body’s natural tendency to shut down thought and action completely when subjected to overwhelming stress. Simply put: Everyone has a breaking point. Pavlov also theorized that different individuals have innate neurological defense mechanisms that determine when or if this breaking point is reached. Strong emotions – such as fear and helplessness – tend to push some individuals to this point sooner, rather than later – eventually, everyone arrives there. There is always an exception to every theory, and a select few individuals possess the inherent ability to retreat so far into the depths of their own subconscious mind that they, in effect, journey back in time to a safer place. These rare individuals will die before they break. *** The 17-hour flight from New York’s JFK to Athens International is a study in physical endurance and sleep deprivation. Sleep, if you can call it that, consists of short periods of coma secondary to the exhaustion and cramping positions of coach-class airline seating. Captain Chris Holt – ordinarily – would have booked a first-class seat for an international flight. However, since he’d booked the flight at the last minute, the first-class section had been completely sold out, which left him crammed into an aisle seat on the port side of the aircraft near the tail section. At least he was close to the lavatory and the rear in-flight kitchen, where the booze was kept. Scotch is an excellent muscle relaxer. *** Exiting the Dulles International terminal, Gilmartin saw a tall, well-built man with a crew cut, leaning against a black sedan with tinted windows. The man opened the passenger door, walked around, and got in on the driver’s side. Gilmartin threw his carry-on bag onto the back seat and got in. Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a massive wrought-iron gate that immediately opened. The sedan stopped under the portico of the sprawling three-story antebellum mansion. “He’s expecting you.” The door opened, and a servant took Gilmartin’s bag and led him into a richly paneled library. Seated behind an antique oak desk was a tall, well-muscled man. His lean, suntanned face and military haircut betrayed his profession. There was a twinkle in his eyes, and there was sadness, too – as if he’d seen too many good men make the ultimate sacrifice for duty, honor, and country. “Jake.” “General.” “Make yourself a drink, and have a seat.” There was a fresh drink on the desk, and the man took a sip. Gilmartin selected a crystal rocks glass and poured four fingers of Johnny Walker Blue Label from a crystal decanter before seating himself into a wing-backed overstuffed chair in front of the desk. He raised his glass. “Absent friends.” “Absent friends.” Both men drank. The man behind the desk pushed a file embossed with the seal of the President of the United States and the words “Eyes Only” – in bold red letters – toward Gilmartin. “Read this.”

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